A Fatal Attraction
by Bmp14
Summary: A story based on the behind-the-scenes life of Emily Prentiss, undercover as Lauren Reynolds, and Ian Doyle. This is my first time ever posting on a website or letting anyone read any of my work... Feedback is greatly appreciated!
1. Chapter 1

I lean in close to the mirror pushing the lipstick up to my pale, bare lips. The colour coats on quickly, and with such intensity that one could not take just a quick glance at it. I put the lid back on the tube and set it down on the large, granite bathroom sink, a piece of my curly, dark brown hair escaping its position behind my ear and falling down to silhouette my face. I'm just about to pull it back to where it belongs when a hand lands on mine, another sneaking onto my hip to help spin me around, bringing me face to face with the culprit. I stifle a laugh and allow my newly reddened lips to land on the cheek of the man who is now holding me, resulting in a perfect red stain balanced just below his cheekbone. He rolls his eyes and groans, not moving his hands from their current position, pulling me closer to him and kissing the ambient red colour from my lips. I kiss him with intensity, and he kisses back equally, my tongue tangling with his, and him pulling me closer with each break we take. This goes on for quite some time, until we hear a small sneeze coming from behind us, directing our attention to the door. Quickly, I pull away, biting my bottom lip with embarrassment and wiping red smears from their misplacement above and below my lips. The man goes to the other side of the spacious bathroom, attempting to wipe his face clear of any signs of the sticky, red substance placed upon his face by me. At the sight of this, I can't help but giggle at the situation, and I walk to the young boy standing in the doorway, fixing my short, tight black dress in the process. I knew that this dress, the one the man bought for me as a gift from a small, expensive boutique in Dublin, would make me irresistible; the silky fabric hugs tightly to my curves, accentuating every accent in my figure, and showing just enough cleavage to make anyone go wild. I let my hair fall over my shoulders as I lean towards the boy who's eyes and nose get a deeper shade of red as I approach him. I cup his small, fragile face in both my hands and look him in the eyes, swishing multiple blonde curls from his obviously tender face. Crusted clumps of a dried, yellow substance flake to the floor in front of us, and I give him a look of sympathy.

"Oh, Declan!" I exclaim, "You are so sick, honey." Pulling his head into my chest and hoisting him onto my knee I turn to the man who was previously on the opposite side of the room, now finished cleaning the red smears from his cleanly shaven face, he stands looking down on us, a smile creeping onto his face. Seeing this look of admiration and pride strewn across his normally serious visage makes it almost unbearable to not wear a grin as well. Suddenly, the party in which we were getting prepared to go to doesn't seem like such a priority, and holding this sick, little boy in my arms is my only worry in the world.

"Oh, Ian," I say to the man holding Declan's head against my chest and hugging him tight, "we can't go out now. Declan is so sick... He needs someone here to care for him." As I am speaking, Declan lifts his head, his sad, crusted eyes transferring from my face to his father's. Ian gives a little laugh, and calls to Louise, his housekeeper, to come take Declan to his room so she can care for him. In just a matter of seconds, the unmistakable clumping of Louise's footprints approaching the bathroom can be heard, and she is at the entrance. I give Declan a quick squeeze before I let him go with Louise, a twang of guilt making its way up my spine. Just two weeks ago, Ian confessed to me that Declan was not in fact Louise's son, but his, and he asked me the very question that still haunts me today; if I would help mother Declan. I smile as I stand up, watching Declan follow Louise's lead into the expansive hallway leading towards his bedroom.

An icy hand reaches down my collarbone, and even though I saw Ian coming towards me this time, his advancement startles me. His hand touches every part of my neck until he reaches the very thing he had obviously been searching for; the heavy, gold chain dangling over my dress' neckline. The necklace that was given to me from him just a mere week ago.

"I was going to get you the ring, but you said you're not the marrying type." These are the words he said to me in the vehicle as he handed me the stunningly beautiful gold chain. I let out a sigh and turn to face him, the man so in love with me, Lauren Reynolds, the mysterious woman introduced to him through a mutual acquaintance. And me, the woman having to pretend to be just as in love with him and he is with me. The only problem being, I'm not sure I'm pretending anymore.


	2. Chapter 2

I open my eyes to bright sunlight falling upon my face. I turn my head slightly to the right, trying to eliminate the amount of sunlight streaming into my eyes, but I notice a large puddle formed in front of the broad patio doors, the large window (opposite the bed occupied by Ian and myself) had obviously been left open, presumably all night. I turn my head the opposite way to face the clock on the bedside table, seeing it read ten o'clock. I try to remember the time we returned home last night, but no memory comes to me. Normally by this time in the morning Ian has things he must get regarding our job, things that if not completed on time could result in danger for the both of us, but he is still laying next to me, deep in slumber. I lay in bed until around ten thirty, and suddenly, without any warning, I'm silently rolling out of bed and making my way to our spacious en suite bathroom; bending over the rim of our porcelain toilet. I cough and sputter with each outburst of heaving, trying to be quiet so as not to wake Ian, but when I hear heavy footsteps making their way to the door, I know my attempts failed miserably.

"Lauren? Love?" His heavy fists pounds against the door, "Are you alright? Can you open the door?" Just as I'm about to answer to his question, another spasm starts up and the next thing I know, Ian is standing above me, holding my medium length, brown hair. My eyes glance to the newly broken door hinge and I shift my gaze back to the toilet bowl in confusion. This goes on for quite some time, and spasm after spasm I feel myself get weaker and weaker, to the point of almost passing out. Once both Ian and I are certain the last convulsion is over, he props me against himself, almost completely carrying all of my body weight and walks me back to our bed. Vision blurred and head pounding I lay back down, closing my eyes as Ian advances to close the patio window, obviously noticing the considerably sized puddle formed at the base of the doors. He scowls and calls harshly to Louise, telling her as she rushes in that it is outrageous that the window be left open all night. I open my eyes enough to see Louise nod obediently to Ian as she wipes up the mess and hastily exits the room, and I turn my head to see Ian walk towards me, gently sitting down and pressing a firm, cold hand against my right cheek. I shiver at the imminent touch and I look Ian in the eye, the genuine look of concern scribed across his face sending chills down my spine.

"No, Emily," I think to myself, "you cannot fall in love with this man." I bring my much smaller hand up to where his remains, resting it atop of it, and allowing them both to settle on my cheek for a moment. His eyes don't shift from mine as he reaches into the bottom drawer of my bedside table, obviously knowing that not only a gun, but a bottle of water resides there permanently. He unscrews the cap and props the open bottle against my devilishly dry lips, my tongue happy to receive something to take the awful taste from it. I sip as much of the bottle down as I can, and once I finish Ian puts the cap back on the bottle, containing the liquid inside. Once his hands are free, he takes advantage and uses one to caress my warm face while the other ravages my already messy, auburn brown hair.

"Love, you are boiling," he says to me, his heavy Irish accent rich in concern, "What happened?" Ian must have watched my brow furrow in confusion, because he stifles a laugh and presses his lips to my neck, almost innocently, as though just showing his pity.

"Perhaps food poisoning?" I offer for an answer, the words simply croaking from my throat, "At the party last night… There was shrimp. I had some. It's okay, it happens to everyone." I attempt to assure him that I am alright, knowing that if Ian thinks I am not well, he will accomplish nothing other than worrying for me. After moments of debating, Ian pulls away, says goodbye, and just like that is gone. I lay in bed until I hear him slam the front door, and I slowly roll up out of bed, staying low as I sneak to the patio, confirming that he left. Although my strength is still low, knowing that this is the only opportunity I have to do is enough of a push to get me out of bed and onto the floor. I retrieve a brown, paper bag from underneath the mattress of the California King bed, and ensuring no one can see me, I make my way back into the en suite. I know something is wrong. This is just like the first time; extreme dizzy spells, headaches, frequent nausea and vomiting nearly every time the scent of meat is diffused into the air.

I take two tests, and when both come back positive, my attempt to keep the heavy sobs coming from my mouth are crushed, I drop to the ground, the only reason my abundant weeping isn't able to be heard by anyone else is because I grab a towel and press it to my face. No. This can't be happening. I look at the tests laying on the counter, the visual of the lines formed so perfectly on both of them makes my eyes fill up with more tears. This time though, I blink them back, letting out a colossal sigh and slowly standing up I wipe the remaining tears from my face. I look at myself in the mirror, finally accepting the fact that was just proved time and time again; I am going to bear Ian Doyle's child.


End file.
